It's Not *Not* Safe for Work
going outside my comfort zone
This short story was written as part of my year-long creative writing challenge. Every Monday, I use a random number generator to select a new writing prompt and share my response by the following weekend. You can learn more about the project here.
Write about an ordinary day in a person's life. Use their internal dialogue to make the story interesting.
A dull buzzing sound woke Jen up at 7:00 am. Rubbing her hand against her eyes, she rolled over to grab her phone off the nightstand, switching off the alarm still half-asleep. Dim, September sunlight was filtering through the blinds into her bedroom, casting stripes of dark and light over the mismatched collection of antique and mid-century furniture.
Jen stretched, arching her back until her head dug into the pillows and her fingertips brushed the headboard. Then she rocked herself out of bed and crossed the few steps to her bathroom.
The blurry reflection of a narrow face surrounded by wild dark curls stared back at her from the mirror above the sink. Jen quickly washed her face, the scent of lemongrass enveloping her, before putting on her glasses. Angular bones and dark hazel eyes came into sharp relief. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, then walked back into her room, pulling an oversized cardigan off the floor and shrugging into it.
The kitchen of her tiny apartment was much like the rest of the space, a mixture of thrift shop finds and cozy patterns. A large, floor-length window in the kitchen looked out on the buildings across from her and the street far below. Numerous plants hung from the curtain rod, philodendrons and strings of hearts. They interrupted the morning light with gentle shadows, softening the geometry of the pane. Beneath the window, a large black and white rabbit dozed in its cage.
Jen flicked on the vintage radio sitting on the kitchen counter and George Harrison’s voice floated behind her as she set about her morning routine.
Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo-doo.
She filled the tea kettle and put it on the stove.
Here comes the sun, and I say,
Put a few ice cubes at the base of the orchid sitting behind the sink.
It’s alright.
Added fresh hay and a couple carrots to Lexington’s cage.
When the tea was done, Jen sat down at the table strewn with pens and discarded notebooks and opened her computer, Lex nestled in her lap. The cursor blinked at her from the half-finished page of the story she’d been working on yesterday.
It was the last of three pieces that were due to her editor by the end of the day. Normally, Jen was early with her submissions, but her mom’s birthday and a surprise vet appointment last week had put her behind. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and squinted at the screen.
His hands knotted in my hair, pulling me close to him. Through the door, I could still hear the thudding music of the concert and the roar of the crowd outside. No one knew we were in here, tangled up together in this closet, but that didn’t mean that someone couldn’t walk in at any second. The thought made it even hotter as Liam pressed me up against the door and crushed his body into mine.
Jen chewed on her lip. Not her most inspired work, but she was in a rush. Stroking the soft fur of Lex’s floppy ears, she tried to think what came next.
Sex against the door? That was always popular with their readers, but she’d done that in a story last month. Liam could go down on her—or maybe there wouldn’t be any actual sex? Just the tease of it, fingers pressing in tight jeans, the friction of fabric.
Or what if someone did walk in? That’s an idea. A friend? Or a stranger? Stranger would be better. Man and a woman? Maybe another couple, looking for some privacy themselves?
Jen had just set her fingers on the keyboard when a loud drilling noise started in the hall, making the rabbit jump. Damn. She’d forgotten that the construction next door was starting today. She wouldn’t be able to focus with that noise going on. Scooping up her computer and putting Lex back in his cage, she got dressed and headed out the door.
I couldn’t tell who was who in the dark. It could’ve been Liam or Marcus I held. I could feel Becca tailing kisses down the back of my neck as my hand moved faster around the hot, hard—
“Lavender oat milk chai latte?”
Jen lowered the lid of her computer just enough to hide the screen. “Thanks,” she said, glancing up at the young, blond man who delivered her order in a ceramic mug.
The café down the street was her go-to writing spot when she needed to get out of her apartment for a bit. It had the perfect environment— comfy chairs, plenty of tables and natural light, not too loud or too busy, but with just enough background noise to muffle any individual conversations. Phoebe Bridgers played over the stereo and was punctuated by the constant whirl of the espresso machine.
When the barista had moved on, Jen reopened her computer, finding her way back into the scene.
Becca was in front of me now, kissing her way down my stomach, lower, lower—
“Writing again?” a voice Jen recognized interrupted her. Cara was clearing off the table next to hers, her long, coppery hair brushing the tops of her high-waisted jeans. A smattering of freckles danced across her upturned nose, and she was grinning at Jen conspiratorially.
Jen automatically tucked the loose curl behind her ear again. “Yeah,” she said.
Cara shook her head, still grinning. “One of these days, I’ll get you to tell me what all those stories are about,” she said. Jen laughed lightly, hoping her face wasn’t turning red.
One of these days I’ll finally work up the nerve to ask for your number, she thought to herself.
Cara put down the rag she was holding and leaned against the table. “Hey. how’s your rabbit doing? You said you had to take him to the vet last week?” She sounded genuinely concerned.
“He’s fine,” Jen said quickly. “Just ate something he shouldn’t have. He’s a little piglet.”
Cara laughed, the sound light and tinkling. “Aren’t all pets? I know my cat probably outweighs most human children at this point.”
Another customer walked in and Cara made her way back over to the counter. Jen’s eyes followed her as she went before she dragged them back to her screen. She reread the paragraph she was writing, only to realize that she’d used groaned and moaned in the same sentence. She shook her head, trying to focus.
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It had finally cooled down enough to go for a run outside. The riverside path through the park was Jen’s usual route, winding her way over the bridges and watching the other people out for an after-work stroll. Some college students were playing ultimate frisbee on the grass. Two young moms were walking their babies ahead of her. Jen swerved around them, her trainers slapping on the concrete. Even though she had her earbuds in, she wasn’t listening to anything. She just liked the illusion, so that she could take in the sounds around her without anyone noticing.
Her story was almost, almost finished. It just needed one more pass before she sent it off to her editor. Jen knew it wasn’t her best and leaned too much on typical multi-some tropes—but hey, those tropes were popular for a reason and their readers would enjoy the piece regardless. Still, it bothered her, sending in something that she wasn’t quite proud of.
You’re not writing for the Booker Prize, Jen. It’s just sex.
The thought passed through her mind, in perfect imitation of her older sister’s voice. Jen snorted. True, but it being just sex was part of why she took so much care with her stories in the first place. Physical intimacy for women was so often chastised, vilified, or only told through the male gaze. Jen felt there was something really powerful in reclaiming that narrative, giving it a new voice—one that actually cared about showing sex in a positive, multifaceted light. Not just some backyard orgy.
She was distracted from her thoughts by a couple walking in the opposite direction. They looked to be in their mid to late twenties, just a few years younger than her. The woman was a slip of a thing, five foot nothing, while the man was a towering giant. Six foot three at the least.
Tilting her head to the side, Jen was caught in the same question that she always had when she encountered couples with extreme height differences: how does that work? There were only so many positions the body could contort into. And with heterosexual couples, things had to line up to work right, didn’t they?
Climb like a tree indeed, she thought as she ran past the couple.
That was the problem with being an erotica writer: you started to see sex everywhere.
Folding herself into the corner of the green velvet couch that evening, Jen gave Lex a quick squeeze before pulling her computer over to her to reread the last lines of her story.
We lay there in a heap, skin sticky with sweat, listening as the music outside swelled and crested in time with our combined pleasure.
She tapped her pen against the edge of her computer. Almost, but not quite sensory enough. Maybe…
We lay there in a heap, skin sticky with sweat and salt drying on our lips, as the music outside swelled and crested in time with our combined pleasure.
Unless people misunderstood what she meant by salt? She’d mentioned sweat. It didn’t really matter if they got it wrong, but it might be confusing.
We lay there in a heap, skin sticky with sweat, our breaths mingling as the music outside swelled and crested in time with our combined pleasure.
There. That was good enough. She ran spellcheck, saved the file, and dropped it into an email for her editor.
Send.
Jen sighed and shut her computer with a satisfying click. The lamps scattered throughout her apartment cast an amber glow over the space. Somewhere beneath her, Lex was rustling about, probably eating her slippers. Jen took a sip of the merlot she’d poured after her dinner and leaned her head back against the cushions.
She’d have to get a head start on the story for next week. Being up against a deadline like this made her skin itch. It’d be nice to do something a little softer, more romantic next time. Set somewhere cozy, two women perhaps, friends slowly becoming lovers? Readers usually preferred enemies-to-lovers, but she liked the tenderness of friendship slowly becoming something more the best.
Lex jumped up on the couch next to her and Jen stroked his ears. She had to be up early for her shift at the library tomorrow. There was just enough time to watch an episode of The Great British Baking Show before she turned in. Pulling the rabbit into her lap and kissing his head, she flicked on the TV and settled in for the night.
Bear with me, there’s a story behind this piece 😆
A few weeks ago, some friends in my writing group took a stab at writing erotica. We had a hilarious time talking over their pieces, discussing the process of writing about sex.
Though I’ve read plenty of romantasy novels (I’m a S.J. Maas fangirl for life), I’ve never written anything vaguely smutty myself. As a demi- bisexual woman, I’ve had a pretty complicated relationship with my own sexuality over the years. Physical intimacy has never been something I’ve quite felt comfortable exploring in my writing.
After reading and discussing my friends’ pieces though, it made me start thinking about where that aversion came from. And I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t rooted in some deeply ingrained, patriarchal-imposed shame. I’ve felt embarrassed by the topic, shy, nervous—like it was something I wasn’t supposed to talk about.
These thoughts and feelings were all swirling around in my head when I approached the prompt for this week. I wanted to try and subvert a bit of the stereotype of who is allowed to be comfortable with sex. At first glance, Jen could seem to fit into the stereotype of a quiet, introverted, millennial woman—an outward representation of my own shyness on this topics. And yet, she writes erotica for a living and doesn’t feel any shame around it.
The juxtaposition of just an ordinary day in her life combined with this spicy, erotica tale felt like way to normalize the topic for myself, even if it’s just through the lens of fiction.
This is a most excellent story. Waiting until the story was just right is wisdom I wish I had followed.